Perfection
by UnconventionalBeauty
Summary: I don't want to be adored and don't want to be ignored. I want the limelight. I want perfection. This story is when I cracked. Correction: I still AM cracked. And let me tell you – it's never felt this good.Read and review please! I love critiques!
1. Space Dementia

Perfection. All I ever really wanted was perfection, and that one thing was denied to me. As it is; everything else was never there – beauty, brains, talent, _normality_ – okay, if I'm going to be left without those things, then fine. Just don't deprive me of the one thing that I _need_ – perfection. Indirectly this would probably lead to the other things I was deprived of, so maybe it's for the best that I never got my perfection – In the end, all I wanted was perfection in my appearance, in my school work, in my relationships with people, everything. But no. If anything, everything and everyone just went from imperfect to past the point of any redemption. They made me sick to the point where I hated them all and couldn't bear to even look at them anymore. Eventually, everything just culminated into hurt, questioning glances, the tears from friends and others, the pleading, the "why are you ignoring me? _What did I do? TALK TO ME!_" And the best part of it? Making others feel the way I used to feel every day, rejected, lonely, upset. Now they know how I feel, and let me tell you; nothing good came out of it for them. I hurt the people who cared about me the most, on purpose. I hurt those that _didn't _care about me, and alienated everyone I deluded myself into caring about. Except I don't care about anyone anymore. I'm a libertine. I'm completely insignificant in the course of the universe; that much has been made painstakingly obvious. But the best part of this space dementia? I love every second of it. The intoxicating effect of the inconsequentiality of my actions in the broad spectrum of things, but their amazing short and long-term effects on everyone I interacted with; making everyone else feel what I feel, everything. The overwhelming headrush you get when you've been able to inflict anarchy on everything and everyone, and everything is tumbling into chaos and disarray and mayhem because of you. It's the most satisfying feeling in the world. You, reading this, would probably say I'm insane.

However, before I get on with my story, let me explain some things about myself to you. Most people think I'm practical. It's the exact opposite of what I want to be. I want to be loud, impulsive, taking risks, putting myself in danger, and coming back with wild stories to tell. I want to be valedictorian, go to a brilliant top-rated school, have a satisfying job, and lead the perfect life. I want to travel the world, live on each continent, satisfy my never-ending craving for change that so few people know I yearn for. I want to be beautiful, extraordinary, unique: walking the catwalk in Milan, designing fashion in Paris, finding the cure for cancer in the Amazon, practicing law at a prestigious English firm. I want to be selfless yet have everything I could ever need. Caring, yet indifferent. Free; unbound to any obligations, resonating happiness, not having to constantly worry, and without that feeling of neglect or being left out. I don't want to hide what I'm feeling for fear of what others will think; don't want to have to pretend to be someone else around the people I care about; don't want to be adored and don't want to be ignored depending on others' moods. I want the limelight. I want **perfection**.

Sadly, my life does not reflect any of those things. I'm mostly stable and I'm usually very good at blocking out my actual emotions. I'll be sitting there laughing and cracking jokes when really, I'm feeling torn up on the inside, and no one will be the wiser. Occasionally, I'll snap from all the tension of holding everything inside, and when that happens I do something drastic. I'm definitely smart, but would never be able to be valedictorian. I'll be lucky if I can be accepted to Stanford; and that isn't even an Ivy League. I plan things out almost to a fault, I'm very restricted, and I don't allow myself to get close to people. In the end, someone usually ends up getting hurt so it's best to be reserved, and not let anyone know what I'm actually thinking. I'm by no means an introvert; if anything I'm extremely extroverted; I just don't like sharing my feelings with people. If I don't put my all into a relationship; when it falls apart I won't have as much to lose. The phrase: "Better to love and lose than to never have loved at all" does not apply to me. I get told I'm perfect by some people, but I know better. I want true perfection; and true perfection can't have any imperfections. More than anything else, I want change. I hate sitting in the same place doing the same old thing day after day after day. I also want acceptance by anyone, everyone. I'm very sensitive to emotions despite my outer reservation; and I get hurt easily over little things that some people probably would be oblivious to. I pay extreme attention to detail, am slightly OCD over proper spelling and punctuation, can be sarcastically mean, can do a backbend, and am a perfectionist. That's me.

This story that I'm telling you, however, isn't of my stable side. The good practical girl, who never steps out of line. The one who is always ignored every morning by her "friends", even when she tries to make conversation. The one who is secretly a hopeless romantic and just wants nothing more than to be accepted and liked and needed; the people-pleaser, who won't say anything mean for fear of offending someone. The one who always gets the blame whenever she tries to tell some stubborn asshole something they should know, but don't want to know, due to their warped idea of Utopian bliss.

No, this story is something completely different. This is the side that wants to be idealistic, but instead sees reality in its harshest form. The one who would ditch all her friends in an instant, if she had any others that she could go to. The one destined to be the crazy cat lady; who doesn't believe in love; the one that can't understand the depth of human affection; thinks true love at the age of 15 is preposterous, and believes that the idea "sometimes only seeing the boy you love makes everything better" is the biggest piece of bullshit in the world. The side that gets mean when she gets bored; who makes people feel bad on purpose; who holds a grudge months after an incident happened; the one who makes arguments just for lack of anything else to do.

This story is when I cracked.

Correction: I still _am_ cracked.

And let me tell you – it has never felt this good.


	2. Author's Note

A/N: Should I continue with this story? Or should I leave it as a one-shot, like this?


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